Forty

 

2019

It is two days after my meeting with LoMack.  The matter is consuming me. I have to make this right or I will forever be wrong.  I cannot bring her back, but I can bring some closure to the parents, some retribution to the perp, and some comfort for me. I’ve made a tentative list of next steps and I am going through them at home when the phone rings. It’s LoMack.

“I found it.” He says to me.  “You wouldn’t believe how many boxes of nostalgia I had to go through.”

“You found it. Great. That’s great.” I snort a laugh.  “In a box of nostalgia. Nostalgia.”

“Did you know I won the sixth grade 100 yard dash on field day.”

“Somehow that news passed me by.  Probably not in the paper.”

“Nah. The Globe missed it. Covering the Red Sox or something. Also, got a leadership commendation for being a safety crossing guard.”

“You’re the cat’s pajamas, LoMack.  What did you find out?”

“You still haven’t told me why you are so interested in this ancient history.”

“I can’t get into it. Sorry. Maybe in a few weeks. I hope then.”

“Seems a bit strange is all.”  

“I know it must.” I say.  “Thank you for the effort.”

“It took me forever, but it was a nice trip down memory lane.  Maybe I am not such a stiff after all.  Some sweet reminders.”

“Find a note from the woman who called you, The Killer?” I said.

“I can’t believe I told you that. No, as a matter of fact, I did not find any note from her. When she dumped me she must have made a phone call. No tangible vestige of our encounter.  But I did see a card from another girlfriend.  Nice to read.”

“Glad to hear it.  Great. What did you find out about the maniac.”?

“Right. Tim.  Here’s what I know. His last name was--well still is I assume--Kowalski.  Kind of a common Polish name.  The car was registered to him in San Diego.”  LoMack starts to read the address.

“Do me a favor, LoMack, put the details in an e-mail.”   

“Sure, that makes more sense.”

“Good. Thanks.” I say.

“There’s one more thing Kozak.”

“What?”

“When I unearthed the registration, I saw that I had scribbled something in pencil on the registration itself.”

“What? What’d you write?”

“Well, at first, I couldn’t figure out what it was, but then I remembered what I did.”

“Okay. What did you do?’

“There are two phone numbers on the registration. And I couldn’t figure out who I would have called.  Then I remembered.”

“Get there LoMack.”

“Alright, Alright. I remembered that I thought that not having the registration would be a problem for the maniac if he got stopped—and since he was driving recklessly, he would likely get stopped. But there was no guarantee he would get stopped. So, it might not be a big deal my taking the registration.  He would, sure, notice it eventually, but then could just go get another registration.  A replacement. He’d figure he just lost the original, that’s all.  It might not be a big deal for him.”

“So.”

“So, I wanted it to be a big deal. I wanted him to pay for that insanity.”

“Alright, so. What’d you do?’

“Seeing the phone numbers that I’d written on the registration reminded me.”

“Come on, Lomack. Get there already.”

“Okay. Okay. Right.  What I did was I called the state police in Colorado, and then called the state police in Nebraska—the states on his likely route to Chicago. Those numbers on the registration were the state police numbers.”

“You called the state police? What for? What did you tell them?”

“I told them that I was hitch hiking in New Mexico and the driver who picked me up was going to Chicago.”

“Yeah so.” 

“And this driver going to Chicago, kept bragging that he’d stolen the car we were driving in.”

“Whoa.” I said. “You said what?”

“I told the cops that some guy who picked me up was driving a stolen car. Told them I was just doing my civic duty. Told them that I had taken down the thief’s license plate. Gave them the plate and make of the car.”

“Well done, LoMack..”

“Like to see the bastard’s kisser when he got pulled over for driving a stolen car and could not find the registration.”

“That’s a sweet image. Good job, LoMack.”

“Not bad for a guy who sells dishwashers.”

“Not bad at all” I say.  “Didn’t they ask you for your name?”

“They did, but I didn’t stay on the line.” Said LoMack.

“They couldn’t trace the call?”

“Nah” said LoMack. “I called from a pay phone. No cells then. This was 1974; they couldn’t trace a one-minute call from a phone booth. Now, 2019, you call the cops and burp, they know the names of your cousins.”

“You think of calling the other states on his route?”

“I called Colorado first. When I called Nebraska they said they already had the information about the stolen car. So I figured Colorado told everyone.”

“Good work. Thank you.” I said again. “If you were nearby I’d shake your hand. A hug, maybe.”

“Don’t push it. Seriously, thank you Kozack. Yesterday I felt real good for the first time in a while when I reconstructed it all. The guy was a lunatic.  It felt, I don’t know, liberating, medicinal even—sounds corny but it did--to recall that I did something that probably slowed that bastard down. You know what I mean?”

“I do.” I said. I did.

“I’ll send you the registration information.” LoMack said.  “Hey, why don’t I just scan the registration and send it to you as an attachment.”

“That would be better. You can do that?’

“Hey, you’re talking to a guy who won the sixth grade 100 yard dash on field day and won a leadership award. I can do more than sell refrigerators.  I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up with LoMack and call Becca at work.

“Rebecca Carey.” She said

“Very official sounding. ‘Rebecca Carey’” I mimicked.

“What’s up Z.”

“Tim. The one who backed up down the highway; the guy who wanted me to rob a gas station. His last name is Kowalski.  I’ll have some more information about him by tonight or tomorrow. I’ll e-mail it to you as soon as I receive it.”

“Ok.  I’ll get on it. I’m busy at work now, but I can probably get to it tomorrow night.”

“Of course, that’s fine.”

“Z.”

“Yeah.”

“There are a number of suspects who are out.”

“You don’t say.”

“We’ll talk.” 

“I told you, Becca, I know who did this.”

“We’ll talk.”

Thirty Nine

July 17, 1974 6am

Now what.

Mike has driven away.   

I turn around to face the building-the lone edifice in this rest area. Again, I check to see if the building is anything more than a men’s and women’s relief station.  It’s not.  I do notice a coke machine near the back wall of the building. No pay phone, though. No inside area of any sort besides what houses the sinks and toilets.  No gas pumps.

I survey the parking spaces. There are two campers and a car with an attached U-Haul trailer.  There seems to be some movement in one of the campers. Nothing is moving in the other two vehicles. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that the only people who will stop here are those who need to use a restroom or those who feel they need to call it a day and sleep.  Since it is just past 6 am, and since most people sleep at dark, I can’t imagine many or any drivers coming in to sleep now. And even if they did, they would be coming to sleep and therefore, not be going anywhere for a while.  

How many people will pull off in any given hour to use the restrooms? The highway itself does not have much traffic this Monday morning. Only a small percentage of the few numbers of drivers will need to pull over.  It is Monday, so I think it is possible some cleaning people might come at some point to take away rubbish and clean the toilets, but that would happen only once, maybe twice a day—and how far would they be going when they leave, and what is the likelihood that they are forbidden from picking up riders.  

This is not good.  It looks to be another very hot day and my chances of getting out of here are infinitesimal. There is nothing about tomorrow that would make my chances tomorrow any better.

There is something positive about the situation. And that is, whoever is stopping will get out of the vehicle and I can ask them, beg them, to take me somewhere, anywhere. It is tougher to reject someone when they are standing next to you.  Still, my options are limited.

The man in the one camper where there was movement, emerges and heads to the bathroom. I go right up to him and tell him of my situation and ask for a lift.  He responds to me like people do-- like I occasionally do--when approached by a panhandler.  He do-si-dos around me. He, a middle aged man, goes into the can, comes out and I implore again. We do the same dance.  He gets back into his vehicle and soon drives up the ramp that leads to the highway.

My guess is that it is a quarter of a mile from the lot to the interstate. But so what? The ramp is valueless since anyone going up it would have been someone I might have addressed in the spartan facility. Walking to the highway would also be valueless.  Hiking on an interstate in most states (though not Colorado I discovered earlier) is illegal. Besides it is very dangerous. Standing on the shoulder when cars are going 75 miles an hour, a hiker is a sitting duck for a driver who is shaking off drowsiness and drifts to the right.  

I consult the map hanging on the building. I can’t tell if the next exit is two or twenty-one miles away because I am not quite sure of where the rest area is. The “You are Here” marker on the map is written above two exits. Where “here” is could be one exit or the other.  But even if it is only two miles to the next exit, walking on the interstate for two miles is crazy dangerous.  And if I have to walk twenty one miles, forget it. I’d be roadkill before Tuesday. Perhaps if I started walking a cop would pick me up, but where would the cop take me? To the slammer? I must look like hell despite last night’s shower.  Ragged tee shirt and jeans, wild hair, each follicle looks as frightened as I am. I will not impress an officer of the law.  

A young man emerges from the car with the U-Haul. He looks like a possibility. Bearded, about my age, lumbering to the restroom with what appears to be a bag of toiletries.  I intercept him.

“Please. You’ve got to help me.  I was stranded here by a truck driver. He tried to molest me.”

The fellow puts up his hand like a traffic cop. “Can’t help you.” He says.

“Look” I say as he passes me by “just take me an exit or two, anywhere.”

“Can’t help you.” He says again and disappears into the restroom.  

I wait a few minutes outside when he goes in to use the facilities. I don’t want to follow him into the can, but I do.  He’s at the sink.

“Hey. I’m in trouble. Just take me anywhere. Anywhere on 40.”

“Not going on 40.” He says through a mouthful of toothpaste.  He spits. “Going on 54. Through the Texas and the Oklahoma panhandles. Besides” he stops again to run a washcloth over his face, “Besides I can’t pick anyone up.”

“Why not? I can scrunch up anywhere.”

“It’s not that. It’s not my car. I’m driving someone else’s car and stuff to Emporia.  I promised the owner I wouldn’t pick anyone up.  Look, sorry.”  He is nice about it. 

“Just one exit.” I don’t even like myself the way I am speaking. I don’t know if I would give me a lift.

“Sorry.”  he says through the washcloth.

I leave the restroom while he’s still doing his wake-up wash-up dance by the sink.  I think maybe I have a shot with this guy. There’s only one other vehicle in the lot. Who knows when the next highway rider will have to empty his bladder?  If I was driving, I’d want to wait until I found a place where I could get fuel or maybe a sandwich before I stopped. This guy with the beard may be my last shot for hours.  

The beard exits with a towel around his neck. I try one more time. “Buddy. I’m in a jam. Please just take me anywhere out of here. I got dumped here because I wouldn’t put out for a trucker.”

He sighs. “I told you the situation.” He looked at me and I sense he’s vacillating. “Let me think about it for a minute.”

There is hope.  “I’ll pay for gas.”

He waves off the gas offer.  “It’s not that. I told you, I promised the guy who’s paying me that I would be the only one in the car.” 

“Just get me out of here.”

"Okay." he says after a moment.  "I'll drive you a little ways but when we get out of Oklahoma and as soon as we cross into Kansas, I have to let you out."

I am beyond effusive when I thank him.  We walk to the car. He clears out room in the front seat. I get in.

Before I am buckled up, he says again: “Really as soon as we get into Kansas.”

“No problem” I say genuinely.

***

Once in the car, I look at my map and see that route 54 goes from Tucumcari on a northeast diagonal toward Kansas. It is not an interstate. A two-lane highway for the most part with an occasional passing lane. The road will take us through what appears to be desolate areas of New Mexico and then more desolate areas through the Texas panhandle, and not much more life through the Oklahoma panhandle.  The first town in Kansas that we will come to is a hamlet called Liberal.  That’s an oxymoron I think, Liberal, Kansas.  I wonder how often the locals have tried to change the name of the burg. 

Liberal looks to be about a 3 ½ hour ride from where we are, and it is yet another 4 ½ hours to  Emporia.  Liberal might be tough to get out of, but it beats baking in the rest stop in Tucumari. I feel an enormous sense of relief.

The ride through New Mexico and Texas is as desolate as the map suggested it would be.  Does anyone live in this part of the country? Dry and deserted.  I don’t see much at all in the way of civilization along the way.  There’s the town of Logan in New Mexico and then a tiny burg called Nara Visa before we enter Texas.  For the nearly 100 miles between Nara Visa and the Texas Oklahoma border there is just about nothing.

John is the antidote to Mike and Tim.  Quiet, soft spoken when he does speak and thus far considerate. We drive easily together.  His one admonishment was that I thanked him one too many times for the lift. He said something like it’s enough.  After the first half hour of conversation, we settle into silence.  

I start playing back the night with Mike. I determine to warn the police and construct letters in my head based on information that I wrote on the phone book.  I still doubt that Mike is a killer even with his last words etched into my head.  But he is dangerous. He might try to molest another hiker.  I run through an interrogation session I’d have with state troopers once they receive my letter.

We’ve driven for about three hours when we reach the Oklahoma panhandle. We arrive at a hamlet on the border of Texas and Oklahoma called, appropriately, Texhoma. There we stop at a diner.  When we enter the diner we exit 1974 and walk right into 1934.  This place has to be a movie set from the Grapes of Wrath. Fly paper hanging from the ceilings.  Lame fans trying to address the heat.  An old Confederate flag tacked onto a wall-a wall that could not have been painted anything close to recently. A woman tending the grill looks half dead. Customers at the counter wearing ten-gallon hats could be one dimensional stick figures for all we can tell. Not much chatter.

“Do you believe this place?” Says John.

“I’m not sure. Is Roosevelt still president?”

“Franklin?” says John.

I point to a picture of Nixon near the menu that is nailed above the grill. “They’re up date.”

“I wouldn’t bring up Watergate.” Says John.

After lunch we leave the Dust Bowl diner and continue on 54 into Kansas.  We are close to Liberal and I figure that I might have to soon get out. John drives right through town. As if he can read my mind he says, 

“It’s okay, Kozak. Let’s see how it goes.”

It went well. We got into playing car games and spent at least an hour or two on a game he called Sherlock Holmes.  You each identify a famous character and keep the name to yourself. Then you alternate asking yes or no questions trying to ascertain who the opponent’s character is. Whoever correctly guesses first wins. 

By the time we were a couple of hours into Kansas we were chummy, laughing, and had devised a few other car games to play.  At one point John confided that it had made the day long trip go better having my company. I told him, once again, that I would be forevermore, grateful.  He told me he would be dropping the U-Haul off at Emporia State College. Then he would be phoning friends of his who lived on a farm outside of Emporia. They were coming to pick him up.  He said there was plenty of room at the farmhouse if I wanted to stay there.  God bless this godsend. Maybe I was due this lift given my last two days. 

Once we got to a town called Pratt, we left 54 and took a similar road, route 61, northeast until we hit route 50 in Hutchinson. Then it was east and northeast on 50 all the way to Emporia.  A sign as we entered the town welcomed us to “Friendly Emporia.”  It felt that way to me. We followed the signs to the campus.  John found a phone booth and told me he had to make a couple of calls.  Half an hour later he’d exchanged the U-Haul and his buddies from the farm had come to get us.   

We washed up when we got to the farm and then rode with his friends to a pool hall where we had beer and hamburgers.  I ate my burger and shot pool feeling better than I had in a long time. We got back to the farm and I had my choice of couches.  Had to share one with a friendly cat, but that was a square deal as far as I was concerned.

The next morning John drove me to the ramp for I-35 toward Kansas City.  Of all the people on this journey, John stands out as the most decent. Could have been because I was so needy when he came along.  We drove together for nine hours on back roads. It would be the third longest lift I would have on this trip.    I wish I had retained his last name and coordinates. But I did not. I waved goodbye at the highway and John the Savior, exited from my life.  But I will never forget him.

For better or worse, my night with Mike became a faded memory.   Thoughts of writing a letter of warning surfaced infrequently.

Thirty Eight

 2019

I am back in the office after my McDonald’s meeting with LoMack.  I nod my head thinking of how he stole Tim’s registration.  I wish I’d had the foresight to do the same while driving with Mike. The scribbled information on the phone book might be enough. 

LoMack wasn’t sure if he could find Tim’s registration at home. He said that he’d lugged boxes of mementos down to his sister’s basement when he moved into her home. He considered the registration a memento and knew he had seen it, off and on, when coming across old items in the past. We exchanged contact information and he told me he would let me know if he could find it.  There was another way he told me we might be able to get Tim’s coordinates.  If we had to, we’d try that.

In my office, I play back our encounter with Tim once more.  I shake my head when I think of him reversing down the highway and then asking us to rob a gas station. And then I think about my next day meeting with Mike.  The last thing he said to me keeps surfacing.  “Lucky for you, you don’t have a twat and a tattoo.”  With that knife in the air.    

In 1974 a person with a tattoo was an aberration.  The few people who had them did not travel in my circles.   There might be a tough in high school who perpetually had a cigarette behind his ear awaiting the time when class would let out so he could bolt and go to the bathroom and smoke up. In September that kid would return from summer vacation with a skull and crossbones tattoo on his arm and make sure to wear a short-sleeved shirt.  Wild, precocious, and admired by his tough guy peers. Then sometime when he was thirty the same fellow would wish he did not have the ink anymore and begin to wear long sleeves in the summer.    

That is hardly the case now.  There’s no stigma at all to having a tattoo.  In fact, if you don’t have one and you’re under 40, that may indicate you are out of the loop. In 1974 you could identify a Charlie by saying, “Charlie is the guy with the tattoo.”  Say that now and you might as well say “Charlie is the guy with the neck.” 

Tattoos are something I don't get. If you put a button on your hat that reads "I am The Greatest" when you are 20, you might want to take it off when you are 40, or even 21. Why would you write something on your body that cannot be altered? I approached a student last summer who, like most students during the hot months, wore shorts and a tee shirt to class. Because there was no ink on her, I confided my puzzlement about the appeal of tattoos. She was an excellent student and the kind of clean looking bright eyed smiley kid who was in the national honor society throughout her high school years. "Why do so many students have tattoos?" I asked assuming she, like I, had none.  She shrugged and surprised me. "It could be art. It could be you’re making a statement about who you are. For me it is a little of both.  ‘This is me’ I’m saying with mine.  I'm going to get my third around Christmas." Where her ink was, was a matter for conjecture. 

“’This is me’ I’m saying with mine.”

Mike was furious because his sister had a Pedro tattoo.  Probably the Pedro part infuriated him more than the tattoo part, but just having a tattoo irritated him.  

She was making a statement. ‘This is me.’ She loved Pedro and wanted all to know it.  Could be a problem for her if Pedro started messing around and the sister wanted to jettison both Pedro and the tattoo. But that is what motivated her to get the tattoo.  ‘This is me.’ Maybe she also wanted to tell her brother what he could do with his behavior.  So, she stuck it to her older brother. “Hey, check it out you suffocating monster. Looka here on my arm. My boyfriend, Pedro.” 

Mike couldn’t see how he, himself, was marked. We all are. 

I rode with Mike for half a day and by the time he dumped me in Tucumcari I could see Mike’s tattoos as if they were inked all over his body. Aggrieved and bereft on each arm. Empty over his heart, Vindictive on his forehead. He couldn’t see them, but I could and probably so could anyone else with whom he came into contact.  ‘This is me’ his tattoos boomed.

What about these tattoos that we rarely allow ourselves to see but are flashing like Las Vegas neon to anyone in our orbit?  How often do we take a peek at them? Do we consider their provenance?  The child who is berated by insecure parents.  The teen whose heart is suddenly broken by a sweetheart. The girl who goes to the dance all duded up but no one asks her to dance.  The kid who gets picked last every time sides are chosen up.  The parent who retrospectively identifies a litany of irresponsible behaviors while knocking back her after dinner bottle of wine. 

Are the marks left by our histories impossible to eradicate?  Are they even more painful to purge than an actual tattoo? I think we can remove them if we work at it, but most of the time, like the high school kid with the skull and crossbones tattooed on his arm, we--down the road--consciously or otherwise choose to cover them up.

How visible is the tattoo I wear?  I knew a person could be a killer and did not preempt the murder. For forty years I ignored the mark.  How has covering up that tattoo been reflected in what I do, how I behave, my ability to love and be loved? 

'This is me.' 

I hope not.  

Thirty Seven

June 16, 1974 Father’s Day 4 pm

Once buckled up, I introduced myself.

“I’m Kozak.” I said.  After enduring Tim, I’d decided to use the handle Kozak for the remainder of the trip. My nom de guerre. “Kozak” I said again.

The driver did not respond. Thirty seconds later, speaking to the windshield, he muttered, “Mike.”

“Mike. Nice to meet you. Thanks for the lift. Where you headed?”  I asked

“East.”

Not a jolly fellow this Mike, but that was fine. It was understandable that he wouldn’t want to let me know how far east he was going in case I turned out to be difficult.   

Mike did not say much in the first fifteen minutes of the ride. I thought he would be a quiet guy and I would be riding in silence.  A quiet guy after rat-a-tat-tat-100-words-of-nonsense-a-minute Tim would be welcome.  

However, Mike turned out not to be quiet.  He had a good deal to say and what he had to say he directed at the windshield.  Occasionally, but rarely, he’d turn his head to look at me.   Usually to emphasize a point. Mike would opine for a spell, then there’d be a few minutes of silence and then he would start up again either elaborating on a prior topic or beginning a new one. Not a lot of volume. He spoke in a monotone. A regular pattern of stopping and starting excoriating everyone and everything.

It did not take many Mike comments for me to realize that this guy was a bad egg--a bona fide sourpuss. No smile, staring ahead as if he was perpetually thinking of incidents when someone had done him wrong.  Wire rimmed glasses which he regularly pushed up after they had slid down his smashed nose. Dandruffed straight brown hair.  

Mike railed against ethnic groups; other truckers who “couldn’t drive worth shit”; state troopers; politicians; and members of his family. He vowed revenge for one affront or another. At the end of a rant, he’d blurt a refrain. “They’ll pay” or “They’ll get theirs” or “That’ll be fixed” or “In due time.”

I learned that Mike’s mother died when he was ten; his father abandoned the two kids and “dumped us off on his alcoholic brother.” He spoke at length about how family members had done him wrong.  I tuned out for some of it as it became repetitive but caught key parts. Mike had a particular antipathy for his sister whom, he said, he’d raised.  

“I raised my kid sister myself.” He said. “What does she do?” Long pause. “She goes and marries a spic, has spic children with spic names who smell like spics.” Another long pause.  “She comes home one day.” He shakes his head from side to side several times.  “Comes home one day with a tattoo on her arm.  Right here.” Mike pauses to put a finger on his right bicep and jab at it. “Right here.” he says again.  He looks at me for emphasis.  “Pedro, it says.  Pedro.”  He turns to the windshield and continues, “Pedro.  A tattoo on her arm that says Pedro.  She has a kid.  Names the spic kid Pedro. Probably too stupid to think up a new name. Like one Pedro Gonzales is not enough.” A grunt.  “In due time.”

After criticizing the sister, Mike waited a few minutes and then started in on his ex, “a worthless cunt if there ever was one.”  Mike, he said, worked his “ass to the bone, while she did nothing.  Nothing. Nothing.”  Long pause. “One day I come back from a haul and she has cleared out. Taken everything. Leaves a toaster and some silverware.” Another pause before he mutters, “She’ll pay.”

“Actually” he said, “She paid.” Mike emphasizes the past tense. “She paid” he says again. “The Statue of Limitations will be over on that soon.”

Did this whining grump really say ‘Statue’ of Limitations?

“Statue of Limitations?” I say.

“Statue of Limitations is almost over.” He nods his head to the windshield with a smirk. 

Despite his surly behavior and his antipathy for everyone and everything, Mike claims that he has a lover in Santa Rosa that he may stop to see.  There is, I discover, a Santa Rosa, New Mexico about an hour and 45 minutes from Albuquerque.  If he drops me off there, I would have gotten a ride of nearly 250 miles.  Not a bad lift.

However, Mike adds that he may not stop in Santa Rosa because he has another lover in Amarillo and yet another one in Oklahoma City, and still another in St. Louis. So, it may be unnecessary to clean his pipes in Santa Rosa, because there are several others down the road. 

Another Romeo. 

How many of the people have I met on this trip who claim to be irresistible? 

I can’t believe Mike has a single lover, let alone the string he claims to have along his route.  He certainly is no charmer and, also, not much of a looker. His nose is all busted up.  There are other marks on his face. My guess is that he has gotten into brawls because of his sweet personality. And there is not much to him from what I can see in profile.  A good sneeze will send the guy out the driver’s door. I can’t see women waiting for his truck’s arrival.

“Kozak you said your name is?” he asked. 

“Right, Kozak.”

“Polack?”

“Polack” I say. 

“You don’t look stupid.”  Mike thinks this is very funny.  Laughing and Mike do not go together, but this quip he believes is a scream.  His mouth doesn’t open. It’s as if the laughter is jailed inside his jaw. His tight lips tremble. There is some tearing on the one eye I can see in profile.

“Both grandparents came from Poland.”  I say evenly.

“Too bad.” This is not as funny to Mike as his prior comment but it’s worth a derisive snicker.

“You’re Okay, Kozak.  Couldn’t tell at first.   There’s a truck stop in Albuquerque.  We’ll get something to eat there and clean up.”

We’d get to Albuquerque around 7.  Assuming a return to the road at 830, we would be at lover number 1 in Santa Rosa around 1030.  A good time for his tryst. Sure.

The truck stop in Albuquerque was no ordinary rest area. It was reserved for truckers, had lockers and showers for drivers, and a conventional dining room.  The stop was also a place where a trucker could get vehicles serviced.  Mike pulled into what looked like a huge service station.  I went with him when he talked to an attendant.  He arranged for the oil to be changed and other servicing.  I saw him fill out a form and sign his name. I made a note of his signature and a few other bits of information he’d put on the form.

We were told that it’d be two hours before the truck would be ready. In the meantime, Mike told me he’d “shower up for Santa Rosa.”   He threw me a quarter.  “Hey” he said, “you could use a shower yourself. Follow me.”

I was not surprised to learn that I was ripe. I’d been out in the heat and in and out of a dozen cars since I left UCLA two days earlier.  Still, it seemed odd that Mike who in general did not appear to be a generous sort, would pay for my shower.  I told him I didn’t need his quarter, but a shower would not be a bad idea.  He nodded and took the quarter back.  I used my own change to pay for what turned out to be a wonderful shower. I soaped up, let the hot water cascade down my body, and felt much better when I emerged.   

When I finished, I met up with Mike in the dining room.  A waiter came by and deposited menus.  Mike did not even look at his. When the waiter returned, Mike stared straight ahead.   "Steak and eggs." he said. "Steak rare. If it's not rare I'll send it back."  When the waiter left, Mike grunted. "Always get steak and eggs. Been coming here every haul for years. Had this waiter a dozen times. Dumb ass doesn't know I get steak and eggs."

The meal was surprisingly good and inexpensive. The downside was that I had to endure more venting from Mike.  More shots at his sister and ex-wife.  A couple of pokes at his “every day drunk” uncle. A swipe or two at ethnic groups.   

Over dessert, Mike opened up about where he was headed. He told me this haul would terminate in Stroudsburg. He also said that he grew up in Scranton about an hour away from where he would deposit the truck.  His ex and sister still live in the Scranton area.  His own home base was not far from Scranton.  

He pushed back from the table and lit up a cigarette. Probably the tenth cigarette he’d lit up since I made his acquaintance.  Mike took a deep drag and then blew the smoke up into the air. He stared at me across the table.

“After I drop the rig off, before I go home, going to take care of things in Scranton.” He nods his head a couple of times. “It’s time. It’s time.”  Another nod or two and a pause. He leans toward me. “It won’t be the first time I paid someone back.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans back. “What do you think I mean?”

“Your business” I say.

He leans forward again. “That’s right Kozak. My business. I take care of my business. I have and I will.”  Another drag of the cigarette. Another exhale up into the air.

I don’t say anything. I can tell he is waiting for me to ask about how he has taken care of business. I don’t. He is not discouraged by my silence.    He proceeds to tell me something very dark, something I truly cannot believe. He tells me he has killed women before who have wronged him. 

I look at him without changing the expression on my face. I’m sure this guy is full of crap. 

He describes some particulars: the kind of women he has “made pay”; his m.o.

This bag of damaged goods is bragging about being a killer, trying to impress me. It is not believable. He looks and sounds like Barney Fife’s good for nothing twin. Barney Fife gone bad. Couldn’t graduate from Mayberry High. Got a job driving truck. Has nothing going for him so he is literally and figuratively blowing smoke telling me how he has killed women as if that is a badge of honor.

“You’ve killed women?” I say cynically.

“Damn right. Keep souvenirs.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get caught?”

He moves his mouth in what passes for a Mike smile. “Statue of Limitations. Think about the way I do it. They can’t identify them and they never find me.”

Again with the statue of limitations. He can’t say it right and doesn’t even know it doesn’t apply to what he claims to have done.  A lover, with ladies panting all over the country, and a killer.  Right. He reclines in his chair, puffs on his cigarette with a smile, exhales above his head.

I don’t for a second buy his baloney, but I do think about not getting back in the truck with him. However, I figure that he has no lover in Santa Rosa or anywhere.  And the guy is going all the way to Stroudsburg which is further east than I need to go. If I can stay one step ahead of this sick jerk—and I think I can=I’ll have a ride nearly all the way home. I’ll just have to get out somewhere east of Youngstown and go North for a short time.

We get back in the cab and drive east.  I have not slept now for close to two days.  It is 9 when we start driving.  Mike says we will arrive in Santa Rosa around 11 and he can’t wait.  I doubt we will be making that stop but regardless I need to sleep.  I am going on two days without any.  I ask him if I can crash on the mattress in the back of the truck until we get to Santa Rosa.  Let him talk to himself about revenge and his sister’s Pedro tattoo.  

Mike surprises me when he says that he could use some sleep himself and will pull off at the next rest stop to snooze for a couple of hours.   This is odd since he claims to be anxious about his date in Santa Rosa. 

“Okay” I say, “I’ll put my sleeping bag on the side of the truck when you stop to sleep.”

“No need to do that” he says, “there’s plenty of room on the mattress for the two of us.”

There isn’t.  His comment alarms me. That mattress is too narrow even for me and a skinny guy like Barney Fife’s twin. I know how wide the mattress is.  I saw it when I tossed my backpack there. Mike maintains that there is plenty of room.  He tells me to go back and sleep and he will join me when we get to the next rest stop.  

Fine, I’ll go back and sleep. But whenever he pulls over, regardless of what he says about enough room, I will get up and out.   

I climb back to the mattress and fall asleep in minutes.  The next thing I know I am jostled awake. Mike has climbed back and is lying right next to me. I am pinned to a side of the cab away from the driver and passenger’s seat. I do not feel good about this. I would have to hop over Mike to get through the curtain, into the cab area and out.  I wait and prepare for an attack of some sort but am happily relieved when the rotten egg conks out.

I fall asleep myself despite being crammed in. I don’t think I am asleep for very long before I hear noises that I have never heard before or since. Mike is thrashing about in his sleep banging the back of the seats in the cab. Banging and kicking as if he is having a horrible nightmare. He is not hitting me but he is alarming me because of this violent movement.  Over and over banging the chairs.  Periodically he emits noises that I can’t decode. It is very wild.

I wait for a moment when he is not moving and quietly step over him.  I get to my chair in front and sit spooked for about twenty minutes.  Then I must have conked out for an hour or two despite whatever thrashing continued. I wake up when I hear Mike growl, step through the curtain, and maneuver into his seat. He asks me why I moved up front.

“There was no room back there, Mike.”  I left out the thrashing.

“Plenty of room Kozak.” He grunted like he was angry.  “Doesn’t matter.  I got to get myself to Santa Rosa to get laid anyway.  Then you’re out of here.”

That scenario was becoming more and more appealing to me.   Mike returned to the highway. About ten minutes later I asked if I could use the bed. He’s on his way to Santa Rosa.  I’ll be alone back there. I need to sleep.

“I’m exhausted Mike.  When we get to Santa Rosa where your girlfriend is, I’ll get out and find a place for the night.” 

This did not seem appealing to Mike. He became even more of a sourpuss, but at that point I did not care. In a short time we’ll be in Santa Rosa and I am done with Mike. I went into the back and quickly crash.

I don’t know how long I was asleep before I was awakened. Mike was again back on the mattress lying next to me.  Like before, I was crammed against the rear of the cab.  What was he doing here?  What time was it? I sensed that it was still night, but I thought it might be close to first light.  

Mike started talking again about his girlfriends here there and everywhere and asking me about mine.  I did not like this conversation and did not offer much in response. What he did next I will remember for as long as I am alive.  With his right-hand palm down, he put his hand between my legs.

“Long time before you see your girl. She like to blow on it?”

The literal answer was that this was an activity to which Becca was not averse, but I knew where we were heading. I leaped over him while shouting No. The jump was an athletic move worthy of some note. I was in the cab of the car and out the door in seconds. 

Where was I? 

It looked like I was in the parking lot of a rest stop of some sort and that dawn was coming on.  I race walked into a bathroom and threw water on my face.

“Did that just happen? Did that just happen?”  I was talking to myself in the mirror. “Look he’s into guys. That is fine. I told him I’m not interested. So we’re square.” I am blabbering, not making sense.

When I came out of the bathroom, I see that there’s not much to this rest area.  There’s a building that is just a rectangular structure, only a bit longer than it is wide. No gas pumps, no cafeteria, no lounge, not even a vending machine.  A men’s room on one side and a women’s room on the other.  That’s it. There is a map hanging on the front of the building. I look at it and am startled to see that we are way past Santa Rosa.  The town I am in is Tucumcari New Mexico, about an hour east of Santa Rosa.

I return to the truck and I see Mike standing outside of it. The sun is making its way up. It is close to 5 am. He has taken my pack and placed it outside the truck.

“This is where you get out. Gotta get my pussy in Santa Rosa.” 

I don’t tell him that I know we passed Santa Rosa 60 miles ago.

“Gonna get your gal in Santa Rosa are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Just like you kill women and keep souvenirs.”

“Just like that.”

“You’re a sick fuck, Mike.”

The scrawny bastard walks around the front of the truck, throws his right hand in the air to give me the finger backhanded, and enters the cab. Once in he leans over and retrieves something from under a seat.  Then Mike lowers the passenger window.  “Take a look Kozak” he says.  And then Barney Fife holds up a knife. A big menacing knife.  “Lucky for you, you don’t have a twat and a tattoo.”

He drives away.  I grab the phone book I’ve carted around during the whole trip and scribble notes on the cover.

I look around. I am standing in a nearly vacant rest stop in the middle of nowhere.  A place a driver would only stop at to use the rest room or sleep.  

For the second consecutive day, I am outside alone in the very early hours of the morning and am trembling.

Thirty Six

June 16, 1974 Father’s Day  

I settle into the diner on the main street of Gallup. I’m still trembling as I slump into the booth.  I play back the events of the night and the memory does nothing but ratchet up my anxiety.  Add to this that I have not slept for 24 hours and I’m not ready for a photograph. What was I doing in a car with that maniac?  

The waitress comes over to take my order and I ask for a few minutes. I’ve got to check and see how much money I have left.  I dump the contents of my wallet on the table and count. There’s not quite 40 dollars, thirty of which are in traveler’s checks. Having a credit card was not even on my radar screen then.  The diner had a breakfast deal for 1.99 which I could manage and was considering, but I was not sure if my stomach was up for it.

I begin to return the checks and bills to my wallet and notice two other items: Maurianne’s phone number that she’d scrawled and given to me before I left Pacifica, and the photo that had been posted at UCLA. I look at the photo again. It appears as if it is the kind you could get at a drugstore. Go into a booth and for a quarter you pose for a string of four shots.  There are what looks like scissored cuts at both the top and bottom of the picture.

I could use a comforting voice after last night’s turbulence.  My parents were not an option; they would detect my anxiety and urge me to take a train or plane back.  I was still hell bent on finishing the journey with my thumb.  Calling Becca would also not be smart or fair. She too would insist that I call it off and take a bus. When I’d balk, she’d fume off the phone. I did not need an argument.  Maybe I’d phone Maurianne.  I did have something I wanted to tell her.

It had been close to two weeks since I left Maurianne’s house in Pacifica.  She could have already forgotten me, but the impulse to reach out to her got traction.  There was a phone booth in the diner. I go up to the counter and ask a cashier for change.  I enter the booth and lay out the coins and the scrap of paper with the phone number. I start dialing but before I complete the call, I realize that it is only about 7 in the morning in Gallup so that would be 6 for Maurianne in Pacifica.  Too early.  I scoop up the coins. On the way out of the diner I tell the waitress that I am not ready for breakfast.  By 715 I am back on the main street of Gallup with my thumb out.

***

Getting out of town, I figured, would not be difficult.  The 40 stopped being an interstate in Gallup. All traffic that had been going east on the highway would have to slow and slog along the main street.   Once through town, the interstate resumed.  Even at this early hour there were hundreds of vehicles coming my way and several lights at which motorists needed to stop.  Many opportunities for stationary drivers to be a sport and pick me up.  

I stood out there for an hour and there were no bites.  While it was only 830 it was getting hot.  Not Needles hot, but hot enough.  I walked up the main street thinking I might have better luck at a different location.  Another hour and nothing doing.  I returned to the spot outside the diner and waited yet another hour.  Nothing.  It was now close to 1030.  

I went into the diner, parked myself at the counter this time and snorted the 1.99 special.  At 11,  I was finished with my meal and decided to try Maurianne. No luck there either. No answer.  I left the diner and stood outside with my thumb out wondering if I would ever get out of Dodge.  At noon I was still luckless and it was becoming Needles hot in Gallup.  I went into the diner restroom and removed a towel from my knapsack. I soaked it and my hat in the sink, wrapped the soaked towel around my neck and jammed the wet hat on my head. I trudged back outside. At one o’clock the towel was completely dry as was my hat.  This was just like Needles. I went back into the air-conditioned diner, sat in the phone booth, and tried Maurianne again.  This time she answered.

***

“Maurianne?” I said.

“Yes, this is Maurianne.”

“I hope you remember me. You picked me up in Salt Lake a couple weeks ago and drove me all the way to Pacifica.”

No sound comes from her end.

“You remember we stopped at your friend Barbara’s”

“Alvin? From Buffalo.”

“Alan. Yes. Alan from Buffalo.”

“Alan, right. ‘Alvin’? what am I thinking.  Alan.  I remember you, Alan, of course. Family in Santa Rosa; trying to get out and back east in no time; horny but thorny girlfriend. I remember you.”

“Good. That’s good.” I said. “Uh. Just for the record, Becca, my girlfriend-she’s not that difficult. I didn’t do justice to her when we were riding.”

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. Just joking. Forgive me. How are you?” 

“Good. I’m Good.”

“You in town?  Need a place to stay?”  

“No. Not in town. Actually, In New Mexico on the way back.”

“Oh. Everything all right?” She asks.

“Everything’s fine. Have had some challenging rides. But okay.”

“Be careful” she said. “Uh.  So. What’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to tell you about something strange that happened in Los Angeles”

This must sound bizarre to Maurianne. She just says “Ok. What happened in Los Angeles?”

“I was in a student lounge at UCLA, a place set up for kids to be comforted or get counseling if they’re strung-out during finals. It was finals week there.  End of finals.”

“Yeah, okay.” She must be wondering where I am going with this.

“The lounge” I continue, “is also a place for students or anyone looking for rides at the end of the semester. There’s a big map.  Students post on it like, “John M needs a ride to…call at such and such a number”

“Yeah. Uh huh. We had a ride board like that when I went to Chico.  Did I tell you I went to Cal State Chico?”

“I think you mentioned that.”

“Never mind.  Chico?  Why am I bringing up Chico? What happened at the student lounge?

“Do you remember when we were visiting your friend Barbara, that a kid from next door came over because there had been a mix-up with mail delivery.”

“Oh sure. I remember that.  Barbara’s husband had a thing going with her.”

“Well, Barbara told you she thought that might be the case.”

“That was the case.” said Maurianne.

“It’s been confirmed? How do you know.”

“I spoke to Barbara last week.  Tell you about that later. What happened at UCLA.”

“Well, I was in that room with the map looking to see if I could find a ride.”

“Yeah.  So.” Maurianne gasped. “Wait. Tell me you saw her? You saw her at UCLA”

“No, I didn’t actually see her.” 

“Oh. Ok. So.”

“She had posted a note on the map looking for a ride.”

“The kid neighbor?  You said you did not see her.”

“I didn’t.”

“So how do you know she posted the note?”

“Whoever posted the note also posted a photo.”

“And you recognized the picture? I mean you met her only once for like twenty minutes.”

“In the photo, she was wearing a low-cut top.”

Maurianne paused. “Oh” she said.

“Oh.” I repeated.

“You saw the tattoo.” 

“I did”

“Wow. Wow.  Barbara will be…I don’t know. Are you sure? Of course. How many people have a tattoo there? That tattoo. There. Oh My. I knew the kid ran away from Elko.”

“She did? She ran away? How did you know?”

“I told you I spoke with Barbara. She called up crazy hysterical one night.  Shel was going nuts. Slapped her. Slapped Barbara, that bastard. The kid neighbor, according to Barbara, told Shel that she was done doing him and Shel reacted like a lunatic. So the kid, afraid of Shel, took off.  The parents don’t know anything about their shenanigans, but are frantic about their daughter who disappeared. No note. No nothing. They asked all the neighbors if they knew anything about the kid leaving. Barbara and Shel played dumb. Shel was so bonkers that he tried to chase after her.”  

“Must have been quite a scene. No wonder Barbara was upset.” 

“Do you know if she got a lift? The kid. Do you know if she got a lift?” Maurianne asked.

“She did. An attendant in the lounge said a guy came in and talked with her, and they left together.”

“Do you know where she went? Where she is?”

“No. Not sure.” I say.

***

Maurianne relays more details and we finish our conversation.  We’ve said all we need to say and besides I’ve run out of coins. 

I still cannot get out of Gallup. I walk up and down the street hoping one spot will be better than another. No luck anywhere.  Earlier in the day, I had noticed a Greyhound mini terminal on the main street. I consider taking a bus to Oklahoma City. The bus leaves at 415 pm and arrives the next morning.  Typically, I can’t sleep on a bus but tonight I figure I could sleep on the bus roof if I needed to.  From Oklahoma City it will be two days hitch hiking back to Buffalo and I have just enough cash.  It will bug me not to finish the entire trip on my thumb, but I cannot bake another day in Gallup.

I give the thumb one more chance.  My promise to myself is that I’ll stand outside by the bus terminal until 4.  If I don’t get a ride by 4, I will buy a ticket and take the bus.  

Someone had left an empty cardboard box in the terminal.  I ripped off a section of cardboard and ask the Greyhound attendant if I can borrow a marker.  On the cardboard I write, HAPPY FATHER’S DAY.  It was 3 pm when I stood outside with the sign.  For forty five minutes, the sign does not work. I was ready to quit, but reminded myself that I said I would wait until 4.

At one minute to 4, a huge truck pulled up at a red light.  One minute to 4. The driver signals to me. I open the cab door.  A scrawny sourpuss of a truck driver says. “Get on in.”  

It does not look like a smile has crossed this guy’s face in the last decade. The driver appears to be about 40 but probably is no more than 35. Smile or no smile, what do I care?  I am getting out of this miserable town--one minute before I was going to take a bus!  At the time I thought this was terrific good fortune.

“Happy Father’s Day” I said.

The skinny guy grunts. “Throw your pack in the back and buckle up.”

I’m familiar with the layout of truck cabs by now. Behind where the driver and any passenger sits is a curtain. Behind the curtain is a mattress where drivers can snooze when they can’t keep eyes open on the road. I pull back the curtain, toss my pack at the base of the mattress, turn around and buckle up.  

We take off through the main street of Gallup and merge onto the interstate on our way to Albuquerque.

Thirty Five

2019

If McDonald’s starts charging me for office space, I might need to pick up a second job.  I am back in the same spot where I recently sat with Becca at the back of McDonalds on Soldiers Field Road.  LoMack and I agreed to get some coffee and talk about our common experience.  We’ve both got our paper cups and settle in at a table where few others are nearby.

“I can’t believe you recognized me?” said LoMack. “I’m looking right at you, and I remember the driver and that I was with someone, and all.  But—sorry Kozak—if you were sitting at this table over here, two feet away, I wouldn’t have known who you were.”

“I have a good memory.”

“You do.  Do I look the same?

“Well you’re gray now and I can see some mileage.”

“Some? A lot of mileage.” LoMack sighs and takes a swig of coffee. “Lot of mileage. Didn’t go anywhere but a lot of mileage.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Not much.” Another sigh and another drink from the cup.   “I don’t know what I told you then if anything.”

“We talked some.”

“Well, I never was a student. When I got back from hitch hiking all over, I tried Community College.  Couldn’t even hack that.  Got jobs here and there. Then, first dad, and then mom passed away and left me dough. My father was a doctor and did well. My mother a nurse.  They had money and were generous. My sister became a doc too. She took over dad’s practice. My sister and brother-in-law are saints. Just saints.  They built an in-law addition to their home and that’s where I live. In law additions are supposed to be for parents, but the loser brother is living there.”

“Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself.” I said.

“Maybe. I have a steady job, now. Work across the river in Watertown.  My sister’s house is in Belmont so an easy drive.”

“What’s the job?”

“Sell appliances at Best Buy.  Been there since it opened. Before that I worked in Lechmere. You remember Lechmere?”

I nod.

He gives off a self-deprecating laugh. “You ever need a dishwasher, washing machine, refrigerator. I’m your guy.” He laughs again. “How about you. You weren’t from here. Were you?”

“No, at the time I was in Buffalo.”

“That’s right. Upstate New York. Right. I remember that.”

“I moved here in the 80s.”

He nods. “Boston is home.  Good place. I’m comfortable here. As comfortable as a guy who couldn’t hack Community College can be.”

“Hey, you’re here. You look well.”

“Thanks.”

“So,” I ask “What happened to you that day. After we split up.”

He wheezed. “Like I said, Kozack, I don’t have the memory you do.  I remember the crazy guy, and remember I was with another hiker.  You, I guess. And I remember, very clearly, getting out of the car after he was already out and him taking a shot at me.”

“I’ll never forget it.”

“Crazy.” LoMack shakes his head. “It took me about an hour to get out of wherever we were.”

“Gallup, New Mexico.”

“Right. Gallup. I knew it was New Mexico.  Anyway it took about an hour to get out.  The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. I mean, let’s hope the rest of the ride was relatively uneventful.  Got stuck in Nashville for a stretch, and have no fond memories of West Virginia, but no big deal. How about you?”

I told him what happened the rest of my way.

“Hairy.”

“Not the whole way.”

“Still.” Says Kozack

I want to get back to what happened in Gallup. “You remember that the guy wanted to rob a gas station?” 

“Sure. That was the whole thing, wasn’t it. He was bragging about how he wanted to have money in his pocket when he saw his father.  It was crazy.  He doesn’t want to pay five bucks then—we’re talking when gas was what 50, 60 cents a gallon. Not like now.  He doesn’t want to pay 5 bucks for gas.  We said, we’d split it right?”

“Something like that.” I say “You had offered to pay for the tank in Gallup and he’d get the next one. I paid for the first tank somewhere in Arizona. Probably would have cost him 10 bucks to Chicago if we kept taking turns paying.”

“Right, he was going to Chicago.” LoMack paused to knock off his coffee.  He shook the cup as if to see if anything was still left. “You said the trip was on your mind recently. How come.”

I didn’t want to get into it with LoMack.  Not yet at least.  “I don’t know” I said.  

“You go after that other guy you just told me about.”

“No.” I say slowly.  “No. I did not.”

“He was probably just blowing smoke.” Said LoMack.

I thought of something Becca kept bringing up.  “Can you remember anything about our maniac. Any physical thing about him.

“Not really.  I remember him bragging non stop about how he was getting laid all the time. And how he was flush with thirty bucks in his pocket like he was a millionaire. “Thirty bucks’ he kept screaming. Like he was Rockefeller.”

“Any scars? Or any physical characteristics.”

“Can’t remember any. Nothing comes to mind. Don’t forget it was at night.” Said LoMack

“Yeah, right. Probably be impossible to find him” I mused out loud.

“Want to get him back for scaring the bejeesus out of us?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, brother, don’t forget I fixed his wagon.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Don’t you remember?” said LoMack.

“Remember what?  All I remember is him taking a swing at you and we both took off.”

“Didn’t we talk after?”

“Well, just to say goodbye. What do you mean you fixed his wagon?”

Lomack laughed. “I must not have told you. Well when he went ballistic, in Gallup or wherever we were, he bolted out of the car.  Remember that?”

“Yes, So.”

Again, Lomack laughed. “He was screaming at me. Then he vaulted out, and I was still sitting there.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I opened up the glove compartment, found the car registration and stuffed it in my pack”

I froze. “You took the registration?”

“I did.” LoMack smiled. “Got that madman back. Sometimes doing the wrong thing is the right thing.” Another big smile. He points to himself proudly. “LoMack. Thief.” 

“The thief” I blurt, but he does not get the reference. “You still have it?”

“Might be in a box somewhere. I know I held on to it for a while”

 

Thirty Four

June 15-June 16, 1974

I made excellent time in the morning.  I was on the road outside UCLA at 530 and within a few minutes had a lift to what Californians called “the 405”.   Interstate 405 would take me to “the 134” and then “the 210” heading east toward San Bernardino.  After San Bernardino I’d take I-15 to Victorville and then Barstow.  After Barstow I-40 east for a long time. 

A reasonable goal for the end of the day was Flagstaff Arizona about 500 miles from the UCLA campus.  It would be great to get all the way to Albuquerque, but that was 800 miles away and a real stretch even with a 530 start.   

As soon as I settled into the first ride, I wondered if my prohibition against nighttime pickups should extend to early morning lifts as well.  The first driver was barely audible.  His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a strung-out druggy look.  The fellow mumbled that he worked the all-night shift at a radio station, but I did not believe him.  It was a short drive to the interstate, and I was glad to get out of the car at “the 405”.   

I had very good success from that point for a while.  I scored a series of rides along 405N and then 134 and 210.  I did not have to wait long between rides either. I was in San Bernardino, a 75-mile distance from UCLA, by 8 am.   In San Bernardino I waited only a half hour for a ride to Victorville, and had my thumb out there by 9.   I was in Victorville only another thirty minutes before a pot reeking van with bandanna festooned hippies stopped. Stoned and quiet they dropped me in Barstow by 10.

The wait in Barstow was even shorter; only ten minutes before a dead ringer for Fred Mertz picked me up. Maybe I had the cast of I Love Lucy on my mind since I’d seen Lucille Ball just a few days earlier, but this fellow really looked the part. Mertz was headed to Needles California a two-hour drive east. His recurring advice to me during our time together was to not go into the chicken business. 

“You can’t make a living” he said.  I muttered something like “hmm” which wasn’t enough for him. He turned his head toward me. “I mean it kid.” Then he turned back to face the road. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Forget the chicken business,” he said as if I’d told him that was my career goal.  Fred didn’t say much else. Just kept making the point for 144 miles that he wished he had not gone into the chicken business.  “There’s money in fruit” he said. “But like a fool I went into chickens.”  I hoped my clothes did not reek from the pot. If they did, he made no comment.   

This was going very well.  I’d be in Needles on I-40 by noon. If I’d driven straight myself from UCLA to Needles it would have taken me until 11am.  I might be back in Buffalo by the 19th or even the 18th if I continued to get lucky. Albuquerque now did not seem like an impossibility and Flagstaff only 210 miles from Needles was a given. I’d planned to take route 40 all the way through Arizona and New Mexico and begin going northeast toward St. Louis when I arrived in Oklahoma City.  Oklahoma City was 15 hours from Needles.  I could get there by the end of the 16th.  Then, easy, two more days from there to Buffalo.  

When I looked at the map the day before I noticed that I would come to a cross roads at Barstow. There I could either go up to Las Vegas and keep going on 15 and then go east, or switch to the 40. The ride through Las Vegas would eventually take me on the same highways that I’d been on when I went west. I wanted something different, so I’d decided before I set out that when I got to Barstow I was going east on 40.  The quick pick up in Barstow and the single ride with Mertz to Needles, made this seem, on the morning of June 15, like a wise choice.

***

I was in Needles by noon.  The Chicken Farmer had a heavy foot and a heavy-duty bladder.  

It was hot in Needles. Very hot.  After twenty minutes standing on the ramp, I hoped to get out of town in a hurry.  I had a hat, but if I had to stand in the heat for more than an hour I knew I would be steamed. I was alone so that was a good thing, but while there were cars going up the ramp heading east, nobody was stopping.  There were a lot of those family campers that never stop and often glance at hikers as if we’re some form of societal toxin.

By 1 pm. I knew I had to have something to drink. I’d knocked off the water in my canteen and was becoming dangerously parched.  Fortunately-- if there could be good fortune associated with standing in the desert for an hour with the temperature above 100-- there was a Denny’s a very short walk from the ramp.  I left my spot, went to Denny’s and chatted up a server. She was sympathetic and kept refilling tall glasses of iced tea with plenty of ice.  I had two such refills. Then I went into the rest room, soaked my hat in the sink, and resumed my vigil by the highway at 1:30 in what I learned in Denny’s was 119 degree heat.

At 230 I touched my hat and it was bone dry. It had been drenched.  This was not good.  I went back into Denny’s and again the sweet waitress poured me iced tea with ice.  At 3 I returned to the road.

As I approached the ramp, I saw that now I was in real trouble. There was another hiker with his thumb out. Just great. He, understandably, did not look happy to see me. I asked if there had been much traffic. He waved his wrist to indicate there had been some but not a lot. I told him I’d been standing there since noon and had no bites. 

My new hiking partner was surly initially, but after a while began to chat. He, Mike, was from Marblehead a suburb north of Boston and was going home. He had hoped to get back before Father’s Day, the next day.  I looked at him skeptically. “I know” he said. “Not gonna happen.”  Mike told me he’d been in the military and was now just hanging out thumbing around the country. I told him I was a grad student on what was a vacation of sorts.  We stood out until 4 and were broiling.   

I suggested we get something to eat. I’d had nothing but iced tea all day.  He hadn’t eaten either. So, we went into Denny’s, slumped into a booth, and didn’t want to leave. The air conditioning felt wonderful and we both were sapped from having stood in that unrelenting desert heat. We decided to take our time eating and stretch out dinner until 5 when we figured it might start to cool down.

Over dinner Mike spoke quite a bit about his past. I found out he had dropped out of the University of Indiana as a junior right after Kent State happened.  “They closed the school,” he told me. “It was a good thing for me because I was failing everything and, what with the student protesting, you could opt for an S instead of a letter grade. I got an S in everything.   Apparently, a steady satisfactory student when I was anything but.  My cousin graduated from Michigan top of his class, my kid sister is a genius, and my dad is a doc, but I’m not much of a student. My father was furious when I quit, but I knew I’d just goof off again and could not count on another student protest to bail me out.  Got a date with Uncle Sam.”

“Vietnam?"

“No. Caught a break, I guess.   Didn’t go to war. For some reason I was sent to the Arctic.”

“The Arctic?” 

“The Arctic.  Go figure the army. The good news was that I wasn’t being shot at. The bad news is that I was all alone in the Arctic. My job was to sit in a room by myself and work surveillance.  Surveilling what is a good question.  We had a station out there in the middle of nowhere and I was on watch to make sure nothing happened. And, guess what—in the middle of nowhere--, nothing happened.  Occasionally there was a flight that came in and I shook hands with some people who were there to do top secret stuff. Then they went and did whatever it was that was top secret and flew out again. 

“A guy living in a village would come every week with food and supplies, but otherwise nearly every day I was all alone in this tower watching nothing and reporting back that nothing had been watched.”

“Tough duty” I said.

“Believe me there were times I thought that it might have been better to be shot at, and more than a few times when I thought that taking Introduction to Sociology or whatever other nonsense I was taking at Indiana might have been worth plowing through.  I was going crazy there all by myself.”

“What did you do?”

“I made up my own crazy stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Crazy stuff.” he laughed. “The best thing was that I divided my waking hours by 365.”

I gave him a look and he snorted again. “I was going crazy right. Had to do something or I would have blown my brains out or maybe taken a gun to the occasional researchers researching top secret nothing.  So I took the day from 7-10 and divided it up by 365.  And I made believe every day was about 2 ½ minutes long.  This way I could celebrate my birthday every day. “

“I don’t follow.”

“Listen up college boy. It’s simple. Birthday is November 11th the 325th day of the year. Multiply 325 times 2.5 you get about 812.”

I’m still not following and tell him so.

“Only a lunatic can follow this completely, but try college boy. This is how I kept my sanity. If you break up the minutes of your waking day by 365, then you can celebrate your birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, fourth of July every day.  Every night, 812 minutes into my day I sang happy birthday to myself.  Fourth of July a little after 2 I pretended there were fireworks.  Superbowl Sunday was around 8 every morning.”  

He laughed again. “I know it is crazy, but I had to keep my sanity somehow.  I made up my own language too.  You wanna hear?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Instead of calling something by its given name you change it so that the beginning and the end of the word were always the same.  The key to my keep-from-going-crazy language was taking the last consonant of a word and putting an o after it and that would be the first syllable. The second syllable was the first consonant with the letters ack after it. So me, born Michael, I was no longer Michael but LoMack. Bread was Dobrack.”

“DoBrack, not doback?”

“You catch on pretty quick, college boy. Yeah, DoBrack.  If the word begins with a double consonant you used both letters.  Pen is NoPack, but plan is noplack.”

“So,” I say “you’re Michael/LoMack. And I’m Alan/NoLack.”

He made a face. “NoLack won’t work. Sounds like two real words. ‘he has ‘no lack’ of funds’. Can’t use NoLack.”

Before I could take offense he continued.  “You got a nickname?”

“I do have a nickname” I said.

“Ok”

“College buddies call me Zeke. Some old girlfriends too.”

“Zeke. That’s good. Zeke. You’d be KoZack. ‘KoZack’" he said as if trying it out  “’Kozak’. that’s good.”

“Glad you approve.”

“Hey, I made up the language. I make the rules” He said while chuckling.

“Fine. What if a word has only one consonant?”

“If it’s the first letter, like We, it’s wack.  If it is the second letter like eel, it’s lo. If a word has no consonants like “I” or “a”, you just leave it out and figure it out from context.”

I tried it out. “Wack donack a dorack. Right? We need a ride?”

“Very good. Wack Dack. We do” He said and laughed again. “And we better get one soon. It’s hotter than lohack out there.”

***

 

LoMack and I went back on the ramp at about 530.  It did not seem a whole lot cooler.       LoMack made a suggestion. 

“There’s another exit. We’re not doing anything here.  Let’s go to the other exit.”

I agreed that that was worth a shot and we were able to get a lift to the other exit a bit further east.  The ramp leading to the highway from the new exit was at the base of a hill. We were essentially standing to the side of a highway overpass with cars zooming past us on the road above.  

We did not have much luck at this new spot either.   The good news was that it was cooler, the bad news was that we were approaching dusk and we still didn’t have a ride out of Hades.  I told LoMack about my not hiking at night policy.

“Suit yourself KoZack” I am staying here all night if I have to.  I want to get to Marblehead before I broil. At night we will not broil. Tomorrow we will broil.”

It was not quite dark yet, so I kept standing by the ramp and began to rationalize staying and hiking at night. In my head,I trotted out a number of rationalizations. “I’m with LoMack. It is not like I am hiking alone.  I will fry in Needles tomorrow. I have to get back to Buffalo by the end of the month.”  

To pass the time before dusk turned to dark I started a game with LoMack. I pretended that I was an announcer giving the play by play of the cars going past us and he was the color man. Initially he was reluctant to play but he got into it after a spell.

“Here comes a Chevy. Looks like a husband and wife in the car. Don’t think there’s much of a chance, LoMack. What do you think?”  

“Nothing there Kozack. No way. You can tell that the husband is a stiff.”   

“With you on that Lomack. Husband looks like a stiff. Sure enough. There it goes. Whoa chance here. I see a van. You see it, Lomack?”

“I do Kozak. I do.”

“Could be hippies, LoMack. Could very well be hippies. We have a shot with hippies.”

“Don’t think so Kozak. Get a good look. You read it wrong Kozack.  Little league team out for ice cream.” 

“It is at that LoMack.  Hope the Needles nine did mighty fine.”

“Good rhyme KoZak.”

“Still need a ride. Here’s a Buick. Whaddayathink Mr. Buick. Give a couple of fellas a lift?

LoMack got to laughing at the side of the road at our commentary.  There was not much light left. I had to make a choice. Stay on the ramp with LoMack or walk to a motel not far from the exit and start again in the morning. I was about to say goodbye to LoMack and keep my don’t hike at night promise when the two of us are startled by what we see.

A car that had been driving above us on I-40 screeched to a halt, swerved wildly and then pulled over to the shoulder near the top of the ramp. The driver then proceeded to, very dangerously, back down the ramp to where we were standing. Not only might another car have started to drive up the ramp at any moment, but the car in reverse was tearing down the ramp swaying from side to side.  It stopped near where we had our mouths open.

The driver popped out of the car. Big long face. High forehead. About 25. Looked like he would be bald before he reached 30. Eyes bulging.

“Peckerheads, you’re in luck.” He shouted. Then bulging eyeballs laughed. It was a weird laugh. Maniacal almost.  Started off sounding like a car that can’t turn over and morphed into a machine gun cackle.  “You peckerheads are in luck.” he repeated. “I’m driving all the way to Chicago.”

***

We felt lucky.  But there was some uneasiness. The guy had slammed on the brakes on an Interstate and had backed down an entrance ramp. And he was jabbering nonstop like he’d had a gallon of caffeine.

We got in the car. A tiny Chevy Vega. LoMack sat in front. I went to the back.

 “I’m Tim.” He says to us as he kerplunks down behind the wheel. “Tim, I am. Who’re you peckerheads?”

 “LoMack” says Lomack. He points a thumb back to me. “He’s Kozak.”

“LoMack and Kozack” bellows Tim. Then again the car engine machine gun laugh.  “LoMack and Kozack. Superheroes. All right. Where you going, LoMack and Kozak”

I say Buffalo. Lomack says Boston.

Tim slams his hand on the steering wheel.  “I knew it. I had a feeling. This is great.” He bangs the steering wheel again. “Buffalo and Boston. You peckerheads are in luck. I’m going all the way to Chicago. All the way to Chicago. And I’m gonna be there by tomorrow night.  No, we’re gonna be there by tomorrow night. Peckerheads. We’ll share the driving and go straight through.” He kept banging the steering wheel. He began to sing “Chicago. Chicago, Chicago it’s a wonderful town.”  

We are up the ramp and racing down the 40 as Tim continues to race speak.

“I got thirty bucks in my wallet. A loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Stop just to piss, then we can’t miss.” Tim got a charge out of his rhyme and says it again.  “Just stop to piss, then we can’t miss” Again the crazy laugh. “Thirty bucks in my wallet now. Thirty bucks in my wallet when I get to Chicago.”

Tim goes on to tell us rapid fire that his father thinks he is a bum which, to me, is not far from a bullseye assessment.  His father has always called him a no-good bum, he says, but he is going to show up in Chicago on Father’s day with thirty bucks in his pocket and show his father that he is not a bum.  Hah. He tells us that he was looking out for drivers.  We, he continues rat a tat speed talking, will share the driving for the next 24 hours.  Three hours on, three hours off, taking the wheel every six hours. Isn’t that beautiful?  And we’ll get to Chicago by Sunday evening, still Father’s Day.

I do some math in my head. It is not impossible that we could make it to Chicago by late tomorrow night, but we would have to drive straight through with almost no breaks at all.  Highly unlikely.  

“I’ll drive “til midnight.” Tim continues.  “Then LoMack, peckerhead number one, you take over. Then you Kozack you drive until 6. Then me, then LoMack.  We take turns see?”

“Great” says LoMack.  I chime in on the chorus and am happy that I am out of the heat, but this guy is a wacko.

Tim is maniacally gabbing.  He talks about the down and out stretches he has had in his life but how he is now back on his feet with THIRTY BUCKS IN HIS POCKET.  Besides being so flush, he tells us about all the women he has had. We are on the road for an hour at least and he still is going on and on about his sexual prowess.

“Women are crazy about me,” he says.  “Can’t blame them.” Then again the machine gun laugh.  “Picked up a cunt before I saw you guys. In San Bernardino.  She was worthless though.  Couldn’t drive.  I told her that she could drive my stick then.” Again we hear this maniacal laugh. 

LoMack starts talking with Tim.  ‘I like the ladies too’ he says. 

Great LoMack, I think, egg him on.

“You do look like an ass man LoMack.”

“Oh yeah.  I once had a girlfriend who called me The Killer.”

This, Tim thinks, is a scream. “The Killer.  Why did you kill her?” Again machine gun laughter. “Okay quick gonna pull over to take a piss. Then back on the road. And I keep the wheel ‘til midnight. He repeats his rhyme. “Just stop to piss, then we can’t miss.”

On the interstate Tim slams on the brakes and skids over to the shoulder. He opens the door recklessly, bounds out, runs around the front of the car waving at us, and then hops over a guardrail.

When he is away I grab LoMack by the shoulder.

“Hey Killer.” I say with heavy sarcasm on Killer.  “What is wrong with you? Why are you egging him on?”

“Look he is taking us all the way to Chicago.”

“He’s a nut.”

“I know. a few screws loose, but he is taking us to Chicago.”

“Don’t egg him on Killer.”

“The Killer. After sex, she'd call me The Killer.”

I stare at him.

LoMack explains. “You said Killer. She called me The Killer, not Killer. True story.”

Again, I pause. “And just how is that significant? Killer or The Killer. Is that important?” 

“Well, what she called me was The Killer, you said Killer.”

“Look LoMack there is a maniac here. Let him fizzle out, and we’ll drive through the night, but he doesn’t need your help getting going.” I pause again. “Killer.” I say still stunned.

“The Killer” corrects LoMack again. “Don’t worry Kozack. I know what I’m doing.”

I want to smack him in the back of the head, but Tim bursts back in the car.

“Killer and Kozack, Superhero Peckerheads are you ready.”

“Ready” I say, without a whole lot of enthusiasm.

***

We switch drivers at midnight according to plan.  LoMack takes the wheel. I am too wired to go to sleep. After about a half an hour LoMack says to Tim that we need to stop for gas.

Tim says okay. In and out.  We’ll rip off the next gas station we come to.

Did I hear that right?

“What do you mean?” I say.

“You want to pay for gas Kozack?” Machine gun laugh. “I don’t want to pay for gas. You want to pay for gas Killer? I don’t want to pay for gas.”

LoMack says he doesn’t want to pay for gas.  I want to strangle him.  He puts his left hand in the air so I can see it, suggesting that he is just placating Tim.

Tim doesn’t see the gesture.  “Here’s what we’ll do. When we stop, I’ll go in to buy something like a candy bar.  Lomack you go in also. Get a coke or something. Meanwhile Kozack you fill up the tank and go into pay, but first stop to take a leak. But don’t take a leak. Don’t even stop in the can, just go out the back door. Gotta be a back door. Me and Killer will drive around and pick you up.  Easy.”

I am incredulous.

“Look” says Tim, “I’d sneak out the back, but I have a record. If they catch me I’m fucked.”

What a surprise, this maniac has a record. I want nothing to do with this.

“Okay, we’ll rip off the gas station” says LoMack. Again, he puts up his left hand to signal to me as if to say, “Don’t worry we’re not going to do this.”

I don’t want this to go any further.  “Let me pay for this tank.  It’s okay. I don’t want to rip off the station”

“Suit yourself” says Tim, “but we are going to have to rip off the next one unless you are going to be buying us gas all the way to Chicago.” Machine gun laugh.

I pay for the gas and grab a hold of LoMack when Tim is making a peanut butter sandwich. 

“Don’t worry KoZack.” We’re not going to rob any gas station. “We just have to placate this guy. He’s going all the way to Chicago.” 

“Maybe you are going all the way to Chicago, but as soon as my driving stint is over and it is light out I am out of this car.”

“We can placate him.” Says LoMack. “I’ll buy the next tank. He’s going all the way to Chicago.”

“Not with me.”

I take over the wheel at 3 and drive until nearly six. We are somewhere near the Arizona New Mexico line on I-40.  I see that very soon we will be in Gallup, New Mexico. Tim takes over the wheel. Soon thereafter Tim says that we will soon need to rob a gas station. Again, Tim outlines how we will rob the station.  

I tell both LoMack and Tim that I am out, that I do not want any part of robbing a gas station.

Finally, LoMack comments that he agrees. He tries to be practical. “We’ll split the gas. I’ll pay for this tank. If we get caught we could go to jail.”

Tim goes nuts. Who knows when this guy last slept for more than a half hour or what he’s snorted. “Fuck you guys. Fuck you.  I’m getting to Chicago with thirty bucks in my pocket. I need one of you two guys to rob the gas station.”

“Okay”, he said to me, “Kozack, you said from the start that you did not want to do it, but how about you Lomack. You were in” 

“I’m not going to rob the gas station. I’ll pay for the tank.” Says Lomack.

Again, Tim goes ballistic. He is screaming.

We are in Gallup New Mexico. I-40 becomes the main street of Gallup at this point. Tim yanks the Chevy into a gas station and bolts out. The sun is up. I grab my pack and start walking.  LoMack also gets out. Tim grabs LoMack by the shirt and takes a wild swing at him and misses. LoMack darts away.  Tim picks up a gas hose and plans to gas up and take off. The station isn’t open so no gas comes out. Tim throws the gas hose on the ground.

“Fuck you” he screams. “Fuck New Mexico.  I don’t need you to get to Chicago. You can walk all the way to Chicago for all I care.”

Tim gets into the Vega and flies through the main drag of Gallup New Mexico.  Lomack and I are standing in his wake and are spooked.

LoMack says he is getting on the road again, but he is clearly shaken.  I say I need a break. We shake hands still not all together over what has just transpired.  I find an old night diner on the main street to sit down and shake myself together.  

From the window of my booth I see LoMack with his thumb out. I don’t see him again for half a century.